


and on her head a crown

by MartinusMiraculorum



Series: the wolves will come again [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Mentions of past rape/sexual abuse, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, lots and lots of Northern politics, other characters to be added - Freeform, this is literally just a wish fulfillment what if right now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-10-17 04:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20615234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartinusMiraculorum/pseuds/MartinusMiraculorum
Summary: The Starks have been avenged. The Boltons are extinguished. It is only the beginning.





	1. the queen of winter

**Author's Note:**

> so a long time ago I wrote a fix-it to the end of the Battle of the Bastards because Sansa setting Ramsay's dogs on him and smirking was truly the worst kind of tv 'feminism.' this story continues directly on from that one, with substantial amounts of world-building and lore from the books being brought in but the events of the show remaining mostly the same to this point 
> 
> with the series brought to its burning turd of a conclusion, it struck me to fix something else that season six really screwed up. especially given the part where Robb legitimizing Jon didn't actually happen in the show, and thus his being acclaimed over Sansa after his laughably bad leadership in the battle was even more outrageous.
> 
> so yeah. I have no idea how far this will go, and but this happened, and there's a lot I would like to re-write about the Northern theater of GoT (and the rest of it, honestly), but I have some vague ideas that could hypothetically become a plot. also, this isn't Jonsa, just fyi.

**SANSA**

It happened with little warning.

“_Aye, Robb Stark is dead. Our King is dead, murdered by those he trusted, by the Boltons and Freys. And these two,” _Lyanna Mormont spoke, iron in her high voice, “_the blood of Ned Stark, have avenged him.”_

Jon stood in front of her, looking hopelessly lost. It had been a week since they took back their home, only a day after the last of the torn corpses from what the singers now called The Battle of the Bastards had been gathered up and burnt. Three days since the Knights of the Vale had returned from the Dreadfort, heavy with plundered treasure and whispering when they thought she couldn’t hear them about the horrors they found there.

A week since she had stood in judgement over her late husband and watched his blood soak the ground beneath the heart tree. A week since she had laid her youngest brother to rest in the crypts of their forefathers, one last victim of that beast in human skin.

In the halls of the castle she had grown up in, in more ways than one, she still found herself looking over her shoulder more often than not.

Robett Glover, who had arrived with nearly his entire garrison as an apology for his disloyalty, took up the debate on the floor. There was talk of further recriminations against the treacherous Umbers and Karstarks, demands by some of the lesser Northern houses, who had been equally complicit in the Bolton's reign but merely not gone so far as to take up arms against Ned Stark's blood, to the lands and titles of those who had. Sansa was in no mood to entertain rewards for those who had stood by while she suffered and bled.

The only people who looked more uncomfortable than Jon were the tattered remnants of his wildling army, including that great beast of a man called Tormund Giantsbane, who boasted daily of ripping out the throat of the Smalljon with his own teeth.

That betrayal had hurt more than the rest. Arnolf and Cregan Karstark had always been cold, but the Greatjon’s heir had been kind and charming when she was a little girl. She even entertained the notion of someday being his lady wife. _Captivity changed him_, she thought.

Mayhaps it was grief and desperation that drove him to turn his back on her family after his father and great-uncle were killed at the Red Wedding. Mayhaps it was hatred of the wildlings that had followed Jon south.

Mayhaps she had never known who he was at all. 

Lady Dustin, whose absence from the battle could at least be excused by the fact that her house's forces had been bled dry in Robb’s campaign, with barely twenty fighting men ransomed home after the Red Wedding, now spoke.

Noticeably quiet, she mused, was the great bulk of Wyman Manderly. Once mocked as too fat to sit a horse, the man looked visibly thinner, perhaps from stress and grief after the murder of his son Wendel at the Twins and the captivity of Wylis, his second son, who had been rescued from the Dreadfort barely alive.

Her eyes flicked over the rest. Lord Rodrik Ryswell, his sons Roger and Rickard, loyal by marriage to the Boltons through their sister, Lord Roose’s second wife, now crawling back in hopes of keeping what they still had. Jonelle Cerwyn, whose face was lined with grief at the loss of nearly every man she knew, including her father and brother. Eddara Tallhart, still a maid and like Jonelle finding herself in charge of a decimated house, never having been prepared for such a role.

Talk had turned to who would lead them. Sansa thought it rather obvious. A bastard Jon might be, but the Northmen respected strength and courage, and it had been Jon in the thick of the fighting. Her Lady Mother would have been horrified, but Sansa would support him. There weren’t enough Starks left to allow childhood mistrust to dictate her actions.

“_We had a king, and he died_,” Rodrik Ryswell spoke at last. Sansa closed her eyes against the memories of her youth and her nightmares based upon what Joffrey had gleefully told her had befallen her brother and Lady Mother. “_We all bled for him, and we would do it again, but his line ended at the Twins. Lord Eddard’s trueborn sons have been slain. Our _King_ has been slain.”_

Lyanna Mormont, like her namesake, would not be so easily cowed.

“_Aye,_” she said, “_our king is dead. But his dream of a free North must not be allowed to die with him. And if we shall not have a king, then Bear Island will stand for what blood of Eddard Stark remains. If we shall not have a king, then we shall have a _queen!”

Sansa sat up as the words registered in her weary mind. _She can’t mean…_

The Lady of Bear Island pointed a finger directly at Sansa, and in her young face Sansa saw the steely determination of her Lady Mother and sisters, all perished in Robb’s service.

Her high voice rang out above the clamor._ “_The Queen of Winter! Queen Stark! _THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!__”_

Sansa sat back and felt the breath leave her chest as the Great Hall erupted into chanting, led by Wyman Manderly’s booming drawl. Swords were drawn from their sheaths and offered before her, others thrust into the air, rising up and down with every repetition of her new title.

_I didn’t want this_, she thought. _This is Robb’s crown. I haven’t won any battles._

Beside her, she felt the oily presence of Littlefinger, reminding her that that wasn’t quite true. Jon’s forces had been on the verge of annihilation when the Knights of the Vale had come through the hills, crashing down upon the Bolton foot like a wave washing over the rocks.

It wasn’t only Northmen who had taken up the chant, she saw. Lord Yohn Royce was on his feet, sword drawn, bellowing as loudly as any of them, echoed by his men. Her aunt’s bannermen, now swearing their allegiance to _her_, in outright defiance of the Iron Throne.

_Did you know this would happen, Petyr_?

She shakily got to her feet.

“My lords, my ladies, I am honored beyond words.” A part of her said that she should decline the crown, or suggest her bastard brother as an alternative, but when she caught Jon’s eyes she saw a reverence and pride there that made it clear he would never accept the offer.

“I am a young girl, even now,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Growing up, I aspired to nothing more but to follow my mother, Catelyn Tully, as the Lady of Winterfell. But if it is your desire, I will take up my brother’s crown. And with your help, I will do everything in my power to ensure that the North – and our new friends in the Vale - _never_ bows to another Southron tyrant again.”

The hall exploded in approval. Jon met her gaze again and nodded. Now the tricky bit. She desperately wished she had learned more about the old Kings of Winter and their ways of doing things, but such things had not held her interest when she was a girl.

“For my first act as your queen, I will take one inspiration from the Dragons. I name Jon Snow, natural son of Eddard Stark, as my Hand, to guide my armies and keep my counsel, in recognition of his courage and fortitude in returning Winterfell to its rightful rulers. I also pardon him of any crime of desertion from the Night’s Watch.” She listened for objections, but mercifully heard none.

She took a shaky breath. But this was a risk she had to take, if she was to be a just queen. “Tormund of the Free Folk, I ask not for your allegiance or fealty, but your friendship. It is my understanding that my brother intended to allow you to settle your people in the Gift, to wait out the coming winter. In exchange for a promise to maintain the peace, I will ask Lord Commander Tollett for his consent.”

The wildling said nothing, but she could see a new respect in his blue eyes. In truth, she knew that she was extending an offer beyond the power of her new station. Any past Lord Commander would view her words as an unacceptable challenge to their authority over the lands given in perpetuity to the Watch, not to the Starks of Winterfell.

Now the grumbling and noises of protest did start. “My lords,” she said, raising her voice again. “Winter is almost upon us. My brother, whom you have all agreed to respect, tells me of horrors lurking beyond the Wall, of nightmares come to life that have forced the wildlings from their homes and even now march south in an army of the dead. You have all heard these stories, and I for one see little reason to doubt them. The Free Folk fought and bled to give me this crown. I would not have their sacrifice go unrewarded. Would you truly ask me to be so ungrateful?”

The silence in the room was almost total, and Sansa knew she had them. Northern loyalty was a powerful thing.

There was one last matter to attend to.

“Lord Baelish,” she said. “As the regent to my cousin, Robert Arryn, I ask for you to remain in my service as an adviser and representative of the Vale for the time being. A man of your experience and skills would be invaluable.”

The smile on Petyr’s face sent a shiver down her spine. In his eyes was nothing short of animal hunger. “Of course, Your Grace. It is my honor and privilege.”

She didn’t want him here. She still wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted from her, though she certainly had suspicions. But it would be far more unwise to send him away, with all he knew, and all she knew he was capable of. "Lord Royce, you may return to the Eyrie with your men at any time of your choosing.”

The older man nodded stiffly. “Aye, Your Grace.”

Sansa’s attention was drawn to another figure whose discomfort was obvious. “Rise, Ser Davos of House Seaworth.”

The man got uncertainly to his feet. _It’s as if he thinks I am to order his execution at any moment._

“My lord, you once served Stannis Baratheon?”

“Aye, my-Your Grace,” Davos caught himself, drawing a smile from Sansa. “I fought at the Blackwater in his name and followed him beyond the Wall as his loyal Hand.”

“Since then you have been an ally of House Stark, aiding my brother and helping to fight his battles. I would reward you for your service, ser.”

Davos bent his head. “Any reward Your Grace thinks to give me is more than I deserve.”

“You may return home,” Sansa said. “A ship and crew will be provided, and provisions to sail from White Harbor. But if you would be willing, you may remain a guest of Winterfell, and serve as the new Castellan. You are a resourceful man, Ser Davos. I think you would do well in the role.”

Whatever the Onion Knight had been expecting, it wasn’t that. And it was certainly an odd choice – normally the position would have gone to the leader of a minor house, perhaps a Flint or a Stout. Yet none of them had risked life and limb to reclaim Winterfell, as this son of Flea Bottom had.

“I…Your Grace, I’m not sure that this is wise, with all respect. I’m merely an upjumped smuggler. I know my way around a ship, but scarcely anything about the running of a castle. I only recently learned to read and write, Your Grace.” His eyes were downcast when he said the last.

Sansa pressed on. “And yet it was widely known that Stannis Baratheon believed in rewarding merit, even over birth. He chose _you_ \- an upjumped smuggler, as you say - to be his Hand. Mayhaps Lord Manderly,” she nodded to the other man, “may yet have use of your skills. But for now, I would have you remain.” She smiled warmly. “It’s at least worth a try, don’t you think?”

Davos could barely meet her eyes. “If you think so, Your Grace.”

Sansa nodded. She swept her gaze out over the assembled hall. She felt utterly exhausted, coming off the high of her sudden ascent to royalty.

_A queen, _she thought. _When I was a girl I dreamed of little more than being a queen._

“If that is all, my Lords and Ladies, I will retire for a time. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours. Lady Cassel,” she nodded to her childhood friend, who had been pulled, scarred and starving, out of the dungeons of the Dreadfort, “will see to your needs.” Beth was one of only a handful of survivors who had been in service to her father, and she knew her way around better than anyone. A woman Steward was unusual, but there was no better candidate than the daughter of her father’s Castellan.

She wondered again what had become of her closest friend, Jeyne Poole. It was probably best she never knew.

Sansa finally allowed her shoulders to drop, and without a look at Littlefinger or her half-brother, she swept from the room.

“Sansa,” Jon began, coming into her solar unannounced.

“I know,” she said, raising her hands. “I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t think – I thought they would chose you!”

Jon shook his head. “But they didn’t. You are father’s last remaining trueborn child. Robb’s crown belongs to you.”

Sansa shut her eyes. “I don’t want it,” she said quietly. “I’m so tired, Jon.”

“I know,” he said, and she could see that he did understand, more than most. “But father raised us to do our duty. Maybe this isn’t what we imagined, but we’re here, and nobody else is going to do it.”

She nodded slowly.

Jon looked uncomfortably back where Lord Baelish was pretending not to listen. Sansa gave him a reassuring smile. _He won’t hurt me_, she tried to say without words.

With one last glare, her brother departed, probably to talk to Tormund and his wildlings. _That_ was going to be more than a little complicated.

The Knights of the Vale had set up camp just beyond the south gate, near the stables. Sansa suspected that they would leap at the chance to escape the chilly conditions. But the forces of her bannermen would remain for some time.

“You’ve done well, Sansa,” Petyr said, almost a whisper. “Your mother would be so proud.”

_She would be horrified_, Sansa thought. _Women don’t rule in the south_.

She nodded instead. “Thank you for remaining here, Lord Baelish.”

“Petyr, please,” he insisted one more, moving closer. “We’ve been through too much together to stand on titles.”

Indeed, she noticed that he had neglected hers entirely.

“I suppose you haven’t given much thought to what happens next?”

Sansa shrugged. “Some. The castle still needs to be repaired, provisions need to be gathered, and the land needs to be secured. We’ll have to deal with whatever garrison Ramsay left at Moat Cailin. I think I shall assign Lord Manderly and the Lords Ryswell to that task.”

“As atonement for their disloyalty,” Petyr observed. “A clever move, though not one without risk.”

“What have they to gain from betraying me? Loyalty runs deep in the North, Petyr. They have been shamed by their failure to come to my aid, and they will be eager to wash it off. The Bolton line is extinct.”

Petyr looked searchingly at her. “Are you sure about that, my lady?”

Sansa gritted her teeth, realizing what he was asking. “You will address me as _Your__ Grace_, Lord Baelish. And…I can assure you that Ramsay is the last of his line. I don't wish to speak of it any further.”

Petyr regarded her for a moment. “I am relieved to hear it, as I suspect will the Lords of the North. We do not need additional…complications...Your Grace.”

_You sold me to him, to be raped and abused,_ she thought. _You told me this was a way to take back power, take back my home, and all you did was make me a victim. I will never forgive you for that._

But instead she nodded, and waited for a moment. “Anything further you wish to discuss, Lord Baelish? I am very weary.”

His eyes glittered. “You have given your bastard brother a great deal of power, Your Grace.”

Sansa had known this was coming. “He’s earned it with his courage and his loyalty.”

“True enough,” Petyr agreed. “But some might see him as your brother’s true successor. A man who can lead them into battle against their enemies.”

Sansa’s smile was utterly mirthless. “Mayhaps you are right. But I will give them no cause to doubt their choice. I will make them love me, Lord Baelish.”

And with that, she took her leave and retreated, feeling his eyes burning into her back the whole way. 

_I am a Stark of Winterfell, and this is my home. No one can hurt me here. Not again._

Eventually, she might even believe it. 


	2. heavy lies the head

**SANSA**

She could feel a headache coming on.

The new blacksmith had hastily forged a circlet of hammered bronze, as close to the crown of the old Kings of Winter as the sketches in a book in the library of Castle Cerwyn as he could manage. Engraved with the runes of the First Men, ringed by nine black swords, it at first looked woefully out of place upon her auburn Tully locks. Beth Cassel had managed to take time out of being the unofficial Steward to help her find the most comfortable set of braids for wearing the symbol of her new office.

The bronze had barely cooled before it was placed upon her head in front of the heart tree, where a few simple prayers were said, and Sansa swore herself to serve and protect the North as her brother had done before her.

Jon had mouthed the words. Unnecessarily, as Sansa had spent hours pouring over the books brought from Castle Cerwyn to ensure absolute fidelity with Northern tradition, even if that tradition had never seen a queen rule in her own right. Before the lords and ladies of the North, she swore to be just, to keep faith with her subjects, to keep the Old Gods, and to be mindful of the coming winter.

_ I swear it by earth and water. _

_ I swear it by bronze and iron. _

_ I swear it by ice and fire. _

Sansa had made a very deliberate statement in choosing Jon to crown the new queen in lieu of any of her father’s bannermen, none of who had been there for the Starks in their hour of need. To hold second place to a bastard, no matter his heroic actions, was a blow to their pride, one that Sansa hoped would spur an eagerness to demonstrate their renewed allegiance as she considered what was yet to be done. 

And now she sat upright upon the chair her father had once occupied in the Great Hall, trying to project a strength and tirelessness she was not sure she truly had in her. For close to three hours she had been hearing petitions and complaints and claims to lands and titles. It had become obvious quite early that this was a component of rule that had been badly neglected by the Boltons. Her father had always been sure to take care of not only his lesser vassals but also his smallfolk, and they had loved him for it. When they had marched south on the verge of winter following her father’s heir, they had not done so out of perfunctory loyalty and feudal obligation. They had done so willingly and enthusiastically, out of love, not fear, because the man who had given so much of himself to them was in peril, and up in the North, where the white winds blew and made no distinction between the Starks and the lowliest peasant, that sort of loyalty was everything.

Maester Luwin had once mentioned that it was not such a bad thing that her father had inherited instead of her uncle – Brandon Stark had never been content to tend to his father’s subjects and their petty concerns and disputes. The Quiet Wolf, as he was known, had the patience his wolf-blooded brother sorely lacked, and it had served him well after his return to the North with her aunt’s bones.

Robb had not long been Lord of Winterfell before he too had crossed the Neck, and Bran had taken his place for only a few months before Winterfell had been captured by the Ironborn and gutted by Ramsay Snow.

_ I will make them love me _, she had told Petyr. This was the cost of that love.

Once more a part of her wondered if it would have been better for her to be merely the Lady of Winterfell while the crown of the First Men sat uneasily upon Jon’s head.

But that time was past.

The bent woman before her completed her tale of woe. Once she had been the owner of a mill in a small village east of Winterfell. Six months ago the Bastard’s Boys had descended upon them, killed the men and raped the women, all for sport. Of the family, only a girl of eight and a boy of six, her son’s children, remained. She asked for shelter and a place where she might find work.

She was hardly the first. When her father was alive, he would have sent her to the Winter town, where there was always work, or at least news of where it might be found. But the Winter town had burnt with Winterfell, and the ramshackle collection of huts that had replaced it was already full of refugees.

She nodded in acknowledgement, thanked the woman for coming, and promised that she could enjoy the hospitality of Winterfell for a fortnight while more permanent arrangements were made.

Another man made to come forward, but she rose to her feet and gestured for him to stay back.

“Lord Glover,” she said. The man in question froze at the sound of his name, but recovered his composure quickly enough.

“My Queen,” he said, dropping to one knee.

“You may rise, my Lord,” Sansa said, and the Lord of Deepwood Motte did so.

“I understand that during the most recent rebellion of Balon Greyjoy, your keep was burned to the ground. Yet when I came to you to seek your aid,” and at this Robett flinched, “I saw a strong keep and palisade.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Robett replied, sounding a bit confused. “With the help of – that is, we asked…”

“Lord Roose Bolton,” Sansa finished for him. “You may speak of the usurper. It does us no good to pretend that the past did not happen.”

“As you say, Your Grace. Lord Roose helped us drive the Ironborn from our lands and gave us craftsmen to rebuild Deepwood Motte even stronger than before.”

Sansa nodded. “And where are those craftsmen, my Lord?”

Again Robett Glover frowned. “Much work remains, my lady. The fire spread from the keep and burned the servants' quarters and guest lodgings. And the Krakens destroyed many villages. They will be occupied for some time, I’m sure you understand.”

Sansa smiled, and knew that it was more likely to put the fear of the Old Gods into Lord Glover than it was to reassure him. “Aye, I understand. Nonetheless, you will select two of every three carpenters and builders and dispatch them to Winterfell at once. With them will come enough timber from your forests to begin the process of rebuilding the Winter town, including four large guesthouses to accommodate those in need. The particulars you can discuss with Lord Seaworth.” She nodded to the Onion Knight, who had been warned of her plans ahead of time. Ser Davos had little experience building houses, but he knew his way around ships, and among those who had been found in Winterfell when it was retaken was a master mason who had overseen the restoration of the Great Hall. It seemed that Lord Roose had plans to rebuild the Broken Tower before his untimely death. The man had been raised in Bolton lands, but proved amenable enough to change his loyalties from a dead house, especially when he was informed his wife and young daughter, still living in a village outside the smoldering remains of the Dreadfort, were under protective custody.

Sansa remembered Mathis Blackstone vividly. He had been speaking with Ramsay while she remained curled in a ball on their bed. He had not given her, his true liege’s first born daughter, a second glance.

But the man was useful. If she was to take revenge on every Northman that stood by as she suffered, there would be very few left.

Lord Robett looked panicked. “My Queen, you must understand – Deepwood Motte was sacked by the Ironborn. Little of our coin survived, and even less of our food and supplies. We have been rebuilding, of course, but the expense…”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Consider the expense repayment for your failure to provide men and material to my brother and I when we came seeking your aid. I will consider all debts forgiven once they arrive, well-equipped and provisioned with timber. Carts will be dispatched with you to carry the timber back to Winterfell.”

Lord Glover clearly looked like he wanted to protest further, but one of the Winterfell guards spared him further humiliation by laying a hand on his shoulder, leading him back to the tables, though not before he offered Sansa a quick bow.

She could feel the anxiety of the room growing as her faithless lords fretted about what she would ask of them. In truth she knew that what she asked was not entirely within the capabilities of the Glovers, so recently restored to their seat of power. But that was not really the point. The point was to impress upon the houses that had failed to keep faith that her forgiveness would not come without cost. But it was important to do so in ways that did not solely benefit her or her family. A rebuilt Winter town would take a great deal of pressure off other villages and castles to have to feed and house refugees and displaced workers.

She had learned a great deal about how _ not _to rule from the Lannisters, she thought, remembering the terrifying ordeal that had ensued when the rage and hunger of the smallfolk of Kings’ Landing had boiled over. That would never happen here.

Despite the small stream of petitioners remaining, she decided not to keep her formerlly faithless bannermen in unnecessary suspense.

“Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord Rodrik Ryswell, come forth.”

The two men did, though Lord Wyman took a bit of time to pull his massive bulk to his feet.

They made to kneel, but Sansa had no desire to humiliate the wealthiest house in the North, among the most untouched by the war, any further, and gestured for them to remain standing. “The Bolton line has been extinguished, and the Dreadfort reduced to a ruin. Yet Flayed Men remain in control of Moat Cailin.”

“Your Grace,” Lord Ryswell interrupted. “Were these stragglers not dealt with when the Vale armies came up the Kingsroad?”

“They fled, despite their defensive advantages. They were too few to resist ten thousand armored knights. But we found no trace of them before we continued north. I have been informed that they have returned, and still hold out for their House. You will take Moat Cailin from the north, and you will put these traitors to the sword. Do this, and consider your debts to House Stark and the crown of Winter repaid.”

“Aye, your grace,” Wyman Manderly said confidently. “My son Wylis will lead the Knights of White Harbor.”

“He will not, Lord Wyman,” Sansa said. “Your son and heir suffered greatly under Ramsay Snow. It is best that he regains his strength.” She turned instead to Lord Rodrik. “My lord, your son Roger shall lead the expedition, while Rickard and Roose shall return to the Rills. You will remain a guest of Winterfell for the time being.”

Rodrik looked on the verge of saying something he would absolutely regret, but managed to hold his tongue. “Yes, Your Grace. I will send word to the Rills to dispatch four hundred men, if that is sufficient?”

Sansa nodded. “And how many can you offer, Lord Wyman?”

“On short notice, eight hundred, Your Grace, including two hundred ahorse.”

“That should be sufficient to root out a few dozen deserters. But just to be safe, I will send a raven to Goldgrass with a command for Lord Harmon to take fifty of his most capable men to meet with you near Castle Cerwyn. If I have done my sums correctly, I can expect to hear that the banner of Winterfell flies from the towers of Moat Cailin in…three weeks, at most?”

Lord Wyman answered before Rodrik could get himself in further trouble. “It will require some haste, but I believe we can deliver it in that time, your grace.”

Sansa nodded. “See that you do. If you cannot complete your task, Lord Royce informs me he intends to dispatch the bulk of his force home to the Vale before Winter arrives. They are of course, weary from their recent victories outside the walls and at the Dreadfort, but I’m sure that they could manage to help rout a few deserters.”

Rodrik Ryswell’s eyes flashed warningly. The implication that his own son and heir could not displace the skeleton garrison left behind was a deep blow to his pride. “I will ensure that the traitors’ corpses are cleared from the Neck well before Lord Royce’s men arrive, Your Grace.”

“Aye,” Sansa said. “See that you do.”

With her silence, the lords were dismissed. Lord Rodrik immediately gestured for his sons to join him, and they all exited the Great Hall. Sansa found herself wishing she might be able to witness _ that _ conversation.

With the Glovers, Stouts, Manderlys, and Ryswells all assigned their penance, that left only a few of the disloyal houses still to be brought back under control. The Flints of Widow’s Watch she had in mind to sweep the Hornwood, where there were sure to be Bolton deserters. Perhaps the Lockes of Oldcastle would join them.

If everything went according to plan, the lords of the North would be reminded who they served, the last remnants of the Boltons would be eliminated, the Winter town would be rebuilt, Moat Cailin would be under their control, and the debts owed to her and her House would be repaid before they had a chance to breed resentment.

Of course, nothing ever went _ entirely _ according to plan. She was particularly sure that Petyr would have something to say about sending a large force, comprised partly of and led by a House formerly loyal to the Boltons by marriage, to take a strategic objective. That was why Lord Rodrik was to remain, of course. She would have to find something for him to do, but that would be easy enough.

The Cerwyns, Dustins, and Tallharts had suffered too badly to be asked to perform any particularly demanding tasks beyond securing their own lands and rebuilding the villages. Lawrence Snow, who had led a small contingent of Hornwood men into the battle outside Winterfell, all but twelve of whom had perished, was to be legitimized as the sole surviving heir of that House as reward. That would certainly raise some hackles, not least from Berena Tallhart, nee Hornwood, sister to Lady Donella. But the widow of Lord Leobald was needed at Torrhen’s Square to advise her niece, the new Lady Tallhart, a maid of only fourteen.

_ Goodness, soon we’ll have to consider arranging marriages _, Sansa thought. The idea made her very uncomfortable, and she resolved to push that off as long as possible.

Alys Karstark and twelve-year old Ned Umber, the last trueborn son of the Greatjon, were due to arrive within the next few days to swear loyalty and be confirmed as the heads of their houses. Tempting as it was to strip them of their castles, they were both, so far as she could tell, innocent of their kin’s treasons, and given that quite a few Karstark and Umber men had surrendered, it was the easiest way to keep them loyal. Besides, there were hardly enough survivors of Jon’s forces to consider rewarding with lands and titles.

Guilt ate at her again. She had hoped that Jon might have the sense to wait for further reinforcements while she rode to the Vale in the hope that she could convince her aunt’s bannermen to follow her. She had been so frustrated with his dismissal of her concerns that she left without consulting him. As it was, he had waited just long enough for the last of the wildlings and their few loyalist houses to arrive, and Sansa had nearly been too late as it was, even with the knights riding hard up the Kingsroad, leaving their supply trains far behind.

Over a thousand men and women loyal to Jon had died many leagues away from the families and loved ones. And she had to pretend that it did not tear her apart when Tormund would toast to the fallen, because Petyr was always watching her.

Finally, the petitions resumed, as Sansa tried not to squirm too much under the weight of her crown.

* * *

Sansa drew off her cloak, and fought the urge to remove her crown with it. She was alone, more or less; two guards - Bear Island men, for they had earned the honor - stood watch outside her door. But she was the Queen in the North, whether eyes were upon her or not. It would not serve her well to so easily forget it. 

She closed her eyes, focusing her breathing as she had taught herself to do when the nightmares of Joffrey and Ramsay and Cersei came, blending into a single maelstrom of horror and pain. 

It was a struggle, but eventually her mind stopped racing. 

Sansa occupied the Lord’s chambers, as was only fitting. But while it was the rooms that her Lord Father and Lady Mother had once occupied, not a single fixture or item of furniture remained from those days, all of it consumed by the flames. Ramsay’s flames. 

_ Even before he wounded me, he wounded my home _.

Yet somehow the familiar-yet-not settings were a comfort. She was not sure she could bear to sleep on her father’s great bed after all that had happened here. 

A part of her still wished to set fire to the guest quarters that Ramsay had imprisoned her within, and then have the wall sealed up. But they couldn’t spare the space, so they were occupied. Lady Dustin, possibly? Mayhaps Wylis Manderly? _ Beth will know _.

She was thankful that even after murdering his Lord Father and his wife Ramsay had apparently stayed away from these chambers, content to occupy those looking out onto the courtyard, across from the kennels. The thought of doing further violence to this place, where she could still feel the slightest trace of Lord and Lady Stark, made her ill. 

_ But I’m not Lady Stark. That would be Arya, if she still lives. I am the Queen of Winter. _

Gods, it would only be a matter of time before her lords began whispering that she should again be wed. However, she did not think them foolish enough to try to turn her into a figurehead while her new husband ruled - certainly not while Jon still lived.

And wasn’t that ironic. _ Mother feared that Jon would take our birthright from us. She didn’t just hate him because he was a reminder that Father had loved another. She feared him. _

And knowing the story of how Domeric Bolton had perished, and no sooner than being legitimized and wed that his bastard brother had murdered their father and seized the title of Warden, mayhaps Catelyn Stark’s fears were not so unwarranted. 

_ Bastards are born of lust, they say. They are treacherous by nature, aspiring to things that are not theirs by right. _

Jon wasn’t like that, she was certain. He believed in her more than she believed in herself, even after her mistakes had cost the lives of his friends and followers in the hundreds. He was a good man. Father would have been proud. Perhaps even Mother might have grown to appreciate him, however grudgingly.

The dull ache from the loss of her mother and eldest brother was always there, beneath the surface. The moment the last traces of her childhood were stripped away: when she learned that she was the lone wolf, and the pack had perished. 

_ Are you still out there, Arya? _ she wondered. Before all of the horror that followed, Brienne had brought her one gift: the knowledge that her sister was somehow still alive, travelling with “a man.”

She was always suspicious about the words her sworn sword had chosen. Brienne was skilled at many things, but lying was most certainly not one of them. There was something about the way she said it that left Sansa convinced that she knew this “man.”

_Sandor? Could it be?_ _But surely Brienne would have said so, or Pod. _

She still said a prayer to the Mother for the Hound every once in a while. _ Gentle Mother, save him if you can. Gentle the rage inside him. _

But he was probably dead too. 

A knock at the door startled her out of her reverie. Yet it was not the pounding of a mailed fist. “Enter,” she said clearly.

The door slowly swung open, and Beth Cassel stepped through.

Beth had gained a bit of weight back since her rescue, but still looked half a ghost. Jagged scars cut across both her cheeks, and her left eye was a cloudy red, and sightless. Once she would have been horrified if only because such injuries would have made her friend unmarriageable. Now that all seemed so childish. 

“Beth,” she said warmly. “What can I do for you?”

The Beth Cassel that Sansa had waved goodbye to as she climbed into the royal wheelhouse so long ago had been a shy if assured young woman. Or maybe she only looked that way compared to Sansa and Jeyne. The Beth Cassel that stood before her still had hint of her old self, but her manner was forthright and direct. Once she had adjusted to the change, Sansa found she didn’t mind that at all. 

“The guests are mostly settled,” the girl said. “We had to accommodate a few more knights than expected, though at least it’s mostly men who can share their chambers - goodness knows how we would have found room for their ladies. I do hope you don’t plan on inviting them anytime soon. At least without warning me.” She paused. “Your Grace.”

Sansa fought a smile. “And our provisions?”

Beth shrugged. “We weren’t ready for this many so quickly. Many of the kitchen staff are gone, and some of them were just whores given scullery duties while they bedded Bolton soldiers. I sent them on their way, but it has left us short staffed.”

“And what about our stores?”

“Well, they had better not stick around that much longer. Your Grace.”

Sansa sighed. “Beth, just call me ‘my lady.' Or Sansa, if you’d prefer. I think you’ve earned that, at least in private.”

“I’ll stick with ‘my lady’ if it’s all the same to you, my lady,” Beth replied. 

Sansa nodded. 

Beth looked around. “Is it just you, my lady?”

“Who else would there be?” she asked. “I can’t very well ask any of the spearwives to wait on me, and I can’t imagine Lyanna Mormont taking any more favorably to the suggestion.”

Beth frowned. “I’ll see what I can do. Winterfell might be a shadow of what it was, but certain standards have to be maintained.” She paused, gnawing on her lip, in a rare but welcome glimpse of her old self. Septa Mordane always used to tell her off for it. “You are a Queen, my lady. Even in the North, Queens should not be alone.”

Sansa frowned. “And what if I wish to be alone?” The idea of having others around her, _ strangers _ \- _ looking at her - _ made her skin crawl.

Beth was silent for a long moment, and Sansa knew that she understood. 

“My lady...I cannot begin to imagine what you suffered…”

“Neither I you,” Sansa insisted. “For everything, I was still the Lady of Winterfell.” She frowned. “Who did this to you, Beth?”

The other girl stiffened. “I would rather not speak of it. He’s - they’re dead, I think. The Bastard’s Boys. They were always falling over themselves to win his approval. They would have been right at the heart of the battle. I wish I could see a body, to know for certain - “

“It was hard to tell man from horse, by the end,” Sansa whispered.

Beth nodded. “Yes, my lady.” She was silent for a long moment. “My lady...what the Bastard did - is that why you wish to be alone?”

_ Are there scars_, is what she was asking.

Sansa nodded, and Beth sucked in a breath. “I see. I - I can see if someone else might be able to take some of my duties - “

“Beth, no, you are needed where you - “

“I insist...my lady,” Beth said, and Sansa could not deny her that. “It might do me some good, as well.”

Sansa reached out a hand, and Beth took it. There was still a slight tremor to her fingers that Sansa knew all too well. “If it might help, then I am glad to offer it.”

Beth offered what just might have been a smile. 

And then there was a pounding at the door which caused both of them to jump. Sansa saw Beth’s hands go to her belt instinctively.

“Who is it?” Sansa asked, trying to sound as if she hadn’t been on the verge of tears. 

“It’s Davos...Ser Davos, your grace.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. The Onion Knight was an unlikely ally, but she could not deny feeling a certain comfort in his presence. He reminded her of her father, she thought. “You may come in, Ser Davos.”

When the man shut the door behind him, she could see that his breathing was rushed, and his cheeks peaked with crimson. “My...Your Grace, we just got news from King’s Landing.”

Sansa frowned. “Go on.”

Davos swallowed. “Your Grace...there’s been - the Great Sept of Baelor...it’s been destroyed - burned, they say. It’s not entirely clear what happened, but...King Tommen and Queen Margaery are dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good God the logistics of Season 6 are a _mess_. As you’ve probably noticed, I’m quite interested in the Northern politics, and how Sansa would manage the aftermath of the Bolton defeat. I’ve combined book and show canon to some extent, though certain events, like Ramsay flaying the Cerwyns, have been ignored. One of the things from ADWD that the showrunners completely missed was that all the able-bodied bearded northern lords had died with Robb, and what was left was a patchwork of widows, young girls, and scheming old men suddenly finding themselves in positions of power. That’s ~interesting~, rather than having Lyanna Mormont and a bunch of dudes with beards, all of whom apparently missed the Battle of the Bastards. So I’ve picked a few northern houses to have stayed out of it and still have manpower, and others that are almost wiped out. The show did the Manderly’s dirty but I’m working with what we have. Also addressed a pet peeve of mine where people ignore that Catelyn's mistrust of Jon is due in no small part to the fact that he's a dynastic threat being raised alongside her children. 
> 
> Poor Donella Hornwood. First she eats her own fingers, then her husband’s bastard becomes her heir.
> 
> The Moat Cailin thing - I hadn’t even realized that aside from fast travelling from the Vale, the KotV would have had to bulldoze their way through Moat Cailin from the south, as even if she show had bothered to use Howland Reed a bunch of armored garrons aren’t making it through the Neck. So instead the Bolton garrison just realize they are fucked and run for the hills, but still need to be dealt with. Does it make sense? Well, more than the show does, I guess. 
> 
> I hope you liked the scene with Beth and Sansa. I’ve decided to leave poor Jeyne Poole out of the story for now, as there is no organic way to get her in here. On the other hand, having a bunch of named northerners rotting in the Dreadfort makes a fair bit of sense. Margaery's death (I love a good Sansaery fic, but I don't _think_ that's what I'm doing here, though it should be mentioned that I think there's a very good case for Show!Sansa not being straight if she even is interested in men at all, so that might come into play) will have personal as well as political consequences - I'm going with the show version where Margaery's friendship with Sansa was more genuine and didn't end as soon as she was married to Tyrion. 
> 
> What did you think of Sansa’s machinations? Needless to say, not all of them will work out, and she’s taken some major risks.  
I’ve gotten a request to show Cersei’s reaction, so I’ll see what I can do about that. We may also see Bran and Meera in the next update, as they are my babies.


	3. the winds of winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are in fact getting a Meera/Bran pov because I am trash. 
> 
> A few notes: there is no Night King in this verse. Turning the White Walkers into yet another army seeking to dominate Westeros, with a single opaque but recognizable leader, was a predictable but wrongheaded adaptational decision. 
> 
> I’ve kept the flight from the cave, but the event unfolded completely differently. Hodor’s still dead, though not necessarily because Bran warged him - no Door was Held, if you get my meaning. Summer managed to draw off a group of wights but may still be alive. Bloodraven is...well, his body is dead, at least. And the last of the Children are gone, dead or vanished into the earth. Jojen died in the cave, not outside it (more on that will come). Oh, and Coldhands is not Benjen Stark. I get not wanting to introduce a new character but the one lore theory the show bothered with was literally the one where Martin said 'no.' Emmy Award winning writers, guys!
> 
> Ages in this fic (as this is obviously kind of important and the year-per-season HBO went with makes no kind of sense). There won’t be any underage shenanigans but you know, feelings happen, especially in this world where being past 13 makes you nearly an adult. The gaps between the Stark kids are just about accurate - I think there’s enough room for Cat to have given birth and conceived without overlap, depending on months, which Martin doesn’t give us. And we’re ignoring that Kit Harrington does most definitely not look like a teenager. Roughly four years have elapsed since the death of Jon Arryn - Season 1 lasted roughly a year, maybe a bit longer depending on how long it took for Ned to figure things out, Season 2 around the same, 3 and 4 a year combined, and season 5 a little less than a year (ignoring the KL plot because what is pacing).
> 
> Sansa: a little past 17 (yeahhhhh she was married to Ramsay at 16 at the oldest)
> 
> Bran: a few months shy of 15 
> 
> Meera: just turned 18
> 
> Jon: close to 20
> 
> Arya: 15

**MEERA**

The wind and snow blew and battered them as if it wished to sweep them from the land itself. 

Meera squeezed her thighs tighter around the back of their rescuer’s mount even as she pulled her prince closer, her ragged breath mixing with his. The snow caked onto the back of his hood melted as it touched her chin, and she shivered again, feeling the meltwater roll down her neck and into her furs. Bundled up as Brandon Stark was, she knew she could not actually feel the warmth from his fragile body, yet somehow her mind was fooled into believing otherwise. 

Mayhaps that kind of delusion in a cold that Meera could have never imagined was a bad sign, but she determined not to think about it. 

_ Her prince was safe.  _

_ Her prince was safe. _

_ Her prince… _

They had slowed, and Meera looked up to see they had come to the base of a sheer cliff. She looked anxiously at their strange rescuer, who had dropped off the side of their mount and pulled the beast, a great horned elk, gently by the reins. 

She squinted, trying to make out any detail through the snow. 

The man before her was clad in the blacks of the Night’s Watch - black mail, a black cloak worn entirely through in places, dark furs in a similar state of repair. His face was hidden by a black cloth. A cloth completely free of the frost that covered the furs shielding Meera and her prince from the unforgiving winter.

There were only so many explanations for why what appeared to be a man also appeared not to draw breath, especially north of the Wall. 

Yet it had been surrounded by dead men, struggling to pull down freezing air into her heaving lungs, her legs afire with overworked muscles, the last of her strength deserting her, so very far away from Greywater Watch, that this man who was not a man had saved them. 

She had heard the footsteps of the dead men crunching through the icy ground, over dead trees and snowdrifts, never tiring. She had cried out her regrets that she had failed to protect her prince and hurled herself over the boy to shield him for just a moment longer.

And then there had been flashes of light around her, and the wight which was reaching for the back of her neck, so close she nearly choked on the reek of decay, had fallen back, a flaming arrow in its breast. Its - her, she saw - dying screams were joined by others as a hail of fire struck all around her, so close she could feel the heat of the flames. She felt something approach, the fall of hooves in snow, though she could scarce keep her eyes open.

Things had gotten a bit foggy after that as she desperately tried to summon the last of her will to defend Brandon Stark, her Prince of the Green, as she had failed to protect Jojen. 

_ How could he not tell me?  _ she asked herself again, despairing.

_ Her baby brother's sightless green eyes stared back at her as Leaf held her back with incredible strength. She barely recognized the screaming voice as her own. _

_ How could you leave me like that, brother? _

She found herself pulled to her feet with unnatural strength, then clambering up onto the broad, shaggy back of some great animal. She barely blinked and her prince's broken body was being pushed into her arms. She pulled him into herself instinctively. 

She realized the man who was not a man had said something, and was waiting for her response. She shook her head, which felt like it was weighed down with iron. 

_ I can't rest. Bran needs me. Bran needs me. I can't rest.  _

"Inside, girl," the man said. "The springs warm the caves. Even Winter cannot put out the fires beneath the earth." 

"I…" words froze on her tongue, her mind sluggish and so, so  _ tired _ .

"The boy is fading. I have a duty to him, as you do."

Meera wanted to ask more, but once more the words did not come. She handed her prince to the man-who-was-not. Bran had fallen unconscious at some point during their escape, though whether it was from exhaustion or because he was green-seeing she did not know.

Meera tried to dismount the elk, but it was even taller than she thought. Her boot caught in the snow, and she fell. 

She was warm. So warm. It had been so long since she was warm, a lifetime even. 

_ Jojen's lifetime.  _

_ Why didn't he tell me? _

Meera's eyes opened as her thoughts caught up. She tried to sit up. There was a rustling of shifting cloth as someone pressed a cup of something to her lips. It tasted like copper and salt and she knew it for blood. 

"A rabbit, girl, nothing more. You are safe here. Both of you. Go on, drink."

She did, hoping she could trust this man who was not a man. She had little choice either way. 

She rolled over, feeling her entire body protest at the movement. Her eyes searched desperately, and there he was, sitting up against the wall of the cave. Looking right at her, yet making no effort to wake her. 

"Meera," her prince said. "You slept for so long, I wondered if you would wake." His Tully eyes softened, as did his voice. "I was worried about you. You are all I have left now, besides the memories."

The crannogwoman frowned. "Bran, are you alright?"

Something seemed to pass over his eyes, and for a moment, despite all the time they had spent together at the edge of the world, she didn't recognize him, and she really was alone. 

The moment passed, and her prince closed his eyes. When they opened, he was Bran again. He was her friend, her prince, _her…_

"Meera," he said again, but this time she could hear the concern in his voice. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything. This is...this is my fault."

Despite her bone-deep exhaustion, Meera felt a flash of anger. "How can you say that? After all we've been through, how dare you tell me that you are to blame for it?"

Bran looked puzzled. "We came out here because of my destiny. Jojen died - "

"Jojen died for all of us," she snapped. "Not just you. And I hate him for it. I do." She furiously wiped away a traitorous tear. 

_ Why didn't you tell me, baby brother? _

Bran's pitying eyes only stoked her rage. This...this stupid  _ boy.  How could she ever… _

But screaming would do little but exhaust her. She took in a shaky breath. "You talk about destiny, Bran. About  _ your  _ destiny."

"I'm s…"

"Stop apologizing! Just listen."

The young man, her prince, fell silent, blushing lightly. 

"Jojen...Jojen had a destiny too. He knew...he knew he was never going to leave that cave. He knew from the day he dreamed the green dreams when the swamp fever nearly killed him. And he went to that cave  _ willingly _ ," she choked out. "And he gave his life - his  _ blood _ \- just as willingly. And I hate him for it. But it was his choice."

Bran was silent for a long moment, until at last she nodded. 

"I don't" he began, trying to sit up. "I made a choice, Meera, and I don't know if it was the right one. I'm changed. I don't know when it happened. But I'm not Bran Stark anymore, not really." 

"You're every bit as thick as him," Meera mumbled. She took a breath. "Tell me what you can. Please."

Bran - for he was still Bran, her prince, no matter what he said - closed his eyes. "Bloodraven, he told me that I would never walk again. But he said that I would fly...and he was...I didn't  _ understand _ , then, but now I do, Meera, I do." 

Meera frowned. "But I don't."

Bran was silent for a moment. "It's...it's hard to describe, but I feel all...all that came before me all at once. All the memories of the weirwoods and the dreams of the greenseers and lives of the skinchangers. I  _ am  _ them. There's no room for Bran Stark. Just as there was no room for Brynden Rivers." 

"If that were true," Meera countered, slowly. "You would not be crying right now. You would not be missing and hating Jojen, just as...just as I am."

Her prince reached up to touch his tear streaked cheeks, looking at the droplets on his fingers as if he had never seen them before. He looked at her, lost, and when she looked back she did not see the Three-Eyed Raven, or the avatar of the Old Gods, or the keeper of the past, as she thought she might.

She didn't even see her prince. 

She saw a scared, heartbroken boy.

And she loved him for it. 

** SANSA **

_ Margaery is dead.  _

The thought echoed over and over again in her mind as Jon tried to quiet the raucous Northerners and Vale lords, all understandably stirred up by the news that the King on the Iron Throne, Tommen of House Baratheon, or so it was claimed, was dead without issue. Rumors had followed in the wake of the raven from Riverrun that none other than Cersei Lannister, whose claim to the throne was thin at best, had taken his place. Sansa could absolutely believe it. 

Alys Karstark and Ned Umber had certainly picked a fine day to finally arrive through the worsening winter. For now they sat awkwardly towards the back of the hall, looking like the condemned awaiting their fate. It served Sansa’s interests as queen to pretend this was so, though secretly she pitied both of them. 

_ Queens aren’t allowed pity. _

Nor were they allowed grief for a political rival and threat to their kingdom, but beneath the crown, Sansa was still barely past seventeen name days. 

Again she wondered if it might not have been better for Jon to be acclaimed King. At least if he faltered, it would not be taken as a sign of his lack of fitness to rule. 

_ Porcelain, to ivory, to steel.  _

Jon was having little luck calming the great hall, however, so perhaps that was wishful thinking. Gathering herself, she stood. “My Lords, my Ladies, I ask for your attention.”

“Listen to your queen,” Davos roared, quieting the last dissenting voices. 

“Lord Baelish,” she said, turning to her inconstant ally. “What do we know of the situation in Kings Landing?”

Littlefinger straightened. “Your grace, there is much news out of the capital, but much of it is confused and contradictory. The great Sept of Baelor has been destroyed, all sources agree, some say by wildfire. It seems that the bulk of House Tyrell perished in the disaster, including the Queen, and the King followed shortly after, some say of a broken heart.”

A faint grumbling broke out among the Lords, but was silenced by Sansa’s look. She turned back to her informal Master of Whisperers. “And who do they say is responsible for this disaster?”

Petyr cleared his throat. “The most common culprit is the Queen Mother, Cersei Lannister. It seems she took the opportunity upon the death of her youngest son to seize the throne for herself.”

“What about the Princess Myrcella?” one of the Vale lords demanded. 

“Her status is...unclear,” Baelish replied. “She was sent to Dorne, to be betrothed to Trystane Martell. There were rumors of a power struggle among the Dornish nobility, but the outcome, and the involvement of the princess is unknown.”

“The Iron Throne is in chaos!” Robett Glover declared. “We’ll never have a better opportunity to seek justice for Robb Stark. We should march south, ally with the Riverlands, and stake our claim to independence.”

“Fool!” muttered Barbrey Dustin, somehow loud enough to still be heard. “We have scarcely enough men for the winter, nowhere near enough strength to march south again.”

“I will make that decision,” Sansa said with absolute certainty. “It is vital that we secure our independence from the Iron Throne, or any other challengers. But the Lady Dustin speaks wisely - we have suffered much and hardly recovered.”

“You will never have a better opportunity for vengeance, Your Grace,” Roger Ryswell said smoothly, and there was a ripple of agreement in the hall, the solemn nodding of heads and murmured approval.

_ Has every man in the north taken leave of their senses? _

“While many of our Houses have suffered greatly, others have...greater resources to lend to the cause,” Lawrence Hornwood said, pointedly. 

Wyman Manderly looked ready to agree. The great bulk of a man was desperate to redeem himself for his inaction in the aftermath of the Red Wedding, and the forces of White Harbor would surely be the first to commit to a new offensive, no matter how foolhardy it might be.

Jon made an effort to stop this before it went too far. “That might be true, Lord Hornwood, but our forces are needed here. We can not allow ourselves to be bled dry with Winter almost upon us. I told you the Dead were coming - that I have seen them with my own eyes, that I have fought them, and lost. You are needed  _ here _ , my Lords.”

“The Wall stands between us and your so-called Army of the Dead, Lord Snow,” Hornwood replied with no small degree of arrogance for his seventeen name days. “It has stood for a thousand years, it will stand for a few more.”

“And how long will we commit ourselves to avenging those long fallen,” Jon demanded. “Joffrey is dead. Tywin Lannister is dead. Roose Bolton is dead.”

“And yet the Freys live still,” said Lyanna Mormont, who had been uncharacteristically silent to that point. “Is it not worth one final march south, that those breakers of guest right should face justice?”

“The North have not been the only ones to suffer from the Lannisters and Freys,” said Robett Glover, and Sansa vaguely recalled that a Piper had married into that family a generation or two back. “Your uncle Edmure once more holds Riverrun, and the Lords of the Trident might have bent the knee to the Iron Throne, but they did so only with swords at their necks. We should send ravens at once, before the Lannisters have time to regroup and secure their hold on the Crownlands.”

“Cersei Lannister killed my Lord Arryn, it is said by some,” Lord Royce added in his booming drawl. “The North is not the only kingdom that would see her suffer the consequences.”

Sansa was losing them, and quickly. “My Lords, we must look to our own people before we look south. I remember better than any of you the crimes of Cersei Lannister. As a girl I was abused and tormented by her for almost two years. Yet I am not longer Sansa of House Stark, able to prioritize my own desires for revenge. I am your Queen, and I cannot allow my own wants to take precedence over the needs of the North. I urge you to consider what we might lose if we march south once more.”

“Her grace is correct,” Lady Jonelle Cerwyn said, speaking for the first time. “I may be a woman, but I know loss and anger, my Lords. My House has been bled dry by Southron adventures. Mayhaps we could reach out to what remains of the Tyrells and the Lords of the Reach to determine a possible course of action. But unless the Lords of the Trident would rise once more, I see no reason for us to risk it all for the sake of revenge. Heed the words of Ned Stark, my Lords: Winter is coming. And if the Hand is to be believed, with it comes a threat far greater than any emanating from King’s Landing.”

Sansa feared that the concerns of women would be dismissed, but the words seemed to sink in, but the murmuring in the hall died down somewhat. 

“Perhaps we have been hasty,” Lawrence Hornwood mused. “Our Queen and Lady Cerwyn speak sensibly, and while we speak of justice to the south, mayhaps we should first speak of justice in the north."

Sansa kept her face impassive, but started to have a sinking feeling about where this was going. 

"My Lords, the Boltons paid the price for their treachery," the young man continued. "Yet it was not solely Bolton troops who stood against their rightful lords outside Winterfell. I committed as many men as I could to the cause of Lord Snow and Queen Sansa, and the men of the Hornwood suffered sorely for it."

He stepped away from the great table and knelt before the dais. "Your grace, I humbly request that my House is rewarded for our sacrifices."

_ He's going to ask for the Dreadfort,  _ Sansa thought.  _ And I have little cause to deny him.  _

"Upon her arrival today I have looked upon the Lady Alys of House Karstark and found myself quite in awe of her beauty and resolve. I therefore beg leave of your grace that we might be betrothed, on the condition that the first born child of her blood, be it a boy or a girl, be named lawful heir to the Hornwood." 

_ That...bastard,  _ Sansa fumed. A look towards Alys Karstark as the room erupted in a mix of approval and protest showed the younger girl had been caught entirely off guard, and the look of horror in her eyes, however quickly she managed to conceal it, told the whole story. 

_ Lawrence Hornwood doesn't just want the Dreadfort,  _ she realized.  _ He wants access to the sea to rival White Harbor, and he intends to get it by bypassing that ruin altogether.  _

Of course, any joining of Karhold and Hornwood lands would ever so easily envelop Bolton territory, but after what Ramsay had done to Lady Donella, who could possibly argue with that? And the Dreadfort could still be awarded to a loyal House. 

It was fiendishly clever, and not at all what she expected from the young man she had graciously legitimized.  _ He cannot be acting alone _ , she mused. It is no accident that Winterfell would be penned in by Glovers and Dustins (in other words, the Ryswells) to the west and the united Hornwood and Karhold to the east, with only the depleted and female-led Houses of Cerwyn and Tallhart at her disposal. Should they judge their Queen unfit, it would be easy enough to convince the others to back…

...to back Jon, she realized. One grasping bastard positioning himself to support another - but her half-brother would never stand for that. Jon was many things, but he was not overly ambitious. 

And yet he had defied her before the battle outside Winterfell, had become Lord Commander of the Night's Watch before breaking his vows by some technicality she scarcely understood. Had he been acclaimed as the victor of the battle, would he really have turned down Robb's crown, and the legitimacy that came with it? 

Baelish caught her eye, and she knew he was considering the same implications.

She had to get ahead of this. "Lord Hornwood," she said as loudly as she could without sacrificing dignity. "Your sacrifice is appreciated beyond words, and I do not wish you to think me ungrateful. But as a maid forced into two marriages against my will, I cannot approve such a betrothal without the clear consent of Lady Alys."

"Your grace," Lawrence Hornwood replied, looking genuinely confused. "The treason of the Karstarks - "

"The treason of Arnolf and Cregan Karstark," Sansa interrupted, not even bothering with the boy's title. " _ Not  _ the Lady Alys. Unless you saw her on the field of battle against the my brother's army, she is innocent in this, and I will not allow the actions of her kin to force her into a marriage - "

"Your grace - "

" - no matter how earnest or deserving the suitor," Sansa finished. 

Davos came up to the young Lord and laid a hand on his shoulder, "You've made your case, my Lord. I think you ought to give your queen a chance to consider your offer."

The boy swallowed, his dark eyes flicking towards Sansa. "Aye, my Lord. Your counsel is wise." He nodded to her and returned to his seat, suitably chastised.

_ No, he was definitely put up to this,  _ Sansa thought.  _ And whoever did it did not prepare Lord Lawrence for the possibility he might be unsuccessful, that much is clear. _

The meeting continued, followed by a long-awaited feast. 

The matter of the Umbers would be settled with her decision on Alys Karstark's marriage, it seemed. Sansa instructed Beth to invite Lady Alys to her solar on the morrow, and asked Jon to determine who had been behind Hornwood's proposal. Her half-brother admitted his own suspicions, which made her feel a bit better. 

Any day now they should also have a raven from Moat Caillin, declaring that the direwolf flew once more over the gate to the North. 

Depleted though their stores were, Beth and Lady Eddara Tallhart had organized as lavish a feast as she had ever seen, with large trenchers of beef and steaming gravy, and even some winter turnips and greens brought from White Harbor. 

Haunted by warm brown eyes and a smile that had lit the darkness of King's Landing, Sansa found herself eating very little. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for both the delay and the shorter chapter, but I hope I packed in a fair bit of character bits and some political intrigue as one of Sansa's early decisions begins to go somewhat awry. 
> 
> I'm deliberately writing against the vengeance-driven show version of Sansa and leaving much more heavily on her book counterpart, while trying to fit the latter into the former's story arc. In part that is because of a certain Stark that is going to be reintroduced next chapter, but I also find a Sansa who has more than a little of Catelyn Tully in her a lot more interesting. 
> 
> So Bran is not robot Bran, lets get that out of the way. The way the show decided to basically turn the 3ER into a vehicle for the flashbacks the showrunners had so fiercely resisted back when they would have mattered was extremely lazy. More of how it works here will be laid out but Bran cannot Doctor Strange the world here. There are hard limitations on his abilities, though even what he can see is *a lot*, and Meera is pretty vital to him not getting lost in all of it. 
> 
> Next chapter, which will hopefully come a lot sooner, moves out of the North for a bit. I got an early request to see Cersei's reaction and I want to write a Jaime who is legitimately horrified by his sister's actions. And as mentioned above I want to rewrite events at the Twins to make them less absurd. Another ally of Sansa's is also on her way back north. 
> 
> There hasn't been much Jon here, which was not entirely intentional. Plus Melisandre is still creeping around Winterfell for now. So I'll try to get inside his head sooner rather than later.

**Author's Note:**

> so, yeah, let me know if there are particular things you would like to see, because this is all very informal.


End file.
